


Cripple And The Starfish

by thankyouandyou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouandyou/pseuds/thankyouandyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here they are, the unlikely pair, the who’d-have-thought, the little broken boy and his wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cripple And The Starfish

They had a breakable boy in their hands and none of them knew, except perhaps for Isaac who can smell breakable a mile off and besides, everything he’s ever loved has been easy to crush.   
  
Stiles stirs in his sleep but he won’t wake, he never does, sleeps through thunderstorms and earthquakes and Scott banging on the front door. Sleeps even through Isaac’s nightmares, at least he used to, until the night with the screaming when he leaned against the doorframe with a glass of water in hand and said, seriously, if you don’t wake me up next time I’m sleeping somewhere else.   
  
Isaac is doing the dishes in the kitchen. He has an hour to kill and a stack of dirty plates to get through. For a while, in between houses, he slept at Scott’s and worked nights in a diner, bussing tables, washing up, so now his hands move on their own. Isaac likes cleaning things, likes bringing them back to their proper state, stacking them neat and nice where they’re supposed to be. He likes washing Stiles’ hair too, but that’s a different thing entirely, he’s finding out.  
  
Scott calls when there are three bowls left in the sink and Isaac is working on the saucepan with the mac and cheese left over from six days ago, before everything went to hell. Scott is saying _I called to remind you about the pills at five-thirty, you told me to_ , and Isaac certainly didn’t tell him to but doesn’t call him on it.  
  
He doesn’t want say anything.  
  
But he does, he says, Go to sleep, Scott. Just go to sleep, he’ll be fine, did you really never think he’d be your collateral damage.  
  
He means ours and he means yours and he really means, go to sleep, you’re tired.  
  
Scott’s taken aback, mumbles a thank you and a sorry, and Isaac doesn’t comprehend the reason behind either one. He was only telling the truth and he’s not blaming anyone, Scott might have had his head stuck in his little bubble of pack love and safety, but Stiles knew what he was getting himself into the first time he opened a search bar and typed in ‘werewolf bite’.   
  
Isaac thinks those things and knows those things but they do nothing for the way his hands shake, the way he’s grateful Scott is hanging up because that means he can lean against the sink and breathe for a moment, tight and painful like the first time he broke a rib.  
  
He breathes and Stiles breathes in another room and Isaac thanks his superhuman hearing, picks up the pan again and starts scrubbing. Six days ago they had macaroni and cheese sitting on the kitchen table, because Isaac cannot afford chairs just yet. Plates were too much fuss, they had somewhere to be in an hour, they way they always seem to, some supernatural creature or other caught in a tree branch, mewling, so they shared the pan between them and passed the one spoon back and forth- Isaac was sure he owned more than one but couldn’t seem to locate the rest right then. He remembers they smiled easy and ate fast, because it was just another day and another day of Isaac cooking mac and cheese, three days in a row by then and soon he’d have to let Stiles know he didn’t really know how to make anything else.   
  
He wonders now, should he google some soup recipes. Does he have enough cash for the proper ingredients or should he get the powdered stuff you mix with water- but that sounds way too cheap doesn’t it, sounds like not putting enough effort when the person you’re cooking for was locked in a basement, starving for three days. He asks himself what would Stiles do if he woke up to a plate of soup on the coffee table in the middle of August, would he give Isaac the finger and ask for pizza or would he turn the other way and not speak for a week and dear _god_ Isaac has never wanted someone to give him the finger so bad before and he doesn’t even _have_ any soup, can’t fucking make it, and then the phone’s buzzing again on the counter, and it’s Scott, and he’s saying, you probably, uh, know, but it’s time for his pills now okay, so. Sorry. Bye.  
  
It’s not time for Stiles’ pills for another ten minutes, actually, so Isaac regulates his breathing and cleans the pot methodically without another freak out about soup and middle fingers. By the time he’s done it’s five thirty and the sky outside the living room window is turning just that shade of light purple that means the sun will be coming up soon, and under normal circumstances Isaac would be pressing his forehead against a part of Stiles’ body right about now, any part, and not saying sorry for the nightmares, just repeating one more time how there’s no _point_ in waking you up, moron, every fucking time. I told you I’m used to this.   
  
This is not one of those sunrises, and Isaac never thought he wouldn’t be glad of it.  
  
He fills a glass with tap water and takes it to the living room, sets it on the coffee table next to a box of Kleenex and Stiles’ pills. He sits on the couch by Stiles’ knees. He hadn’t noticed that Stiles is wearing his pajama bottoms, Isaac’s well worn, too-used pair that should have been thrown out ages ago. That way he smells less like pain and more like Isaac, but perhaps that should be attributed more to how Isaac broke his promise and has been touching him lightly every ten minutes or so for the past five hours, his ankles his shoulders his neck, sucking up the pain, small tendrils of black ink climbing up his veins every time and making his temples throb.  
  
Isaac leans close. You wake Stiles up the way you calm down a spooked horse, you talk to him in a steady voice and touch his neck firmly, so he can’t shake you off, can’t roll away. You speak, say, come on pixie face, wake the fuck up. Stiles, wake up, your dad’s discovered your porn. Stiles, Stiles, Lydia’s here and she’s naked. The last one still works more often than not, and Isaac can’t say he’s pleased. Or surprised, really.  
  
Stiles comes awake with a sharp breath through his teeth, blinking furiously and for a moment he tries to sit up, but Isaac holds him down. He seems disoriented, which he never used to be, and there’s a tension in his limbs that wasn’t there before, a defensive thrumming energy. Stiles is alert, and ready for a fight. Isaac doesn’t panic, and he doesn’t wince, but it’s a close thing.   
  
Stiles is blinking at the ceiling, and Isaac puts two fingers on his chin, tilts his head carefully towards him, until they lock eyes.   
  
Stiles focuses on him easily. Good. That’s good.  
  
A few moments pass, and Stiles says, " _huh_." Then he does one of those complicated things he does with his face, a small quirk of his nose, his eyes narrowing a little. He pats Isaac on the knee with the hand that doesn’t come with four fractures.  
  
"Calm down, buddy."  
  
"What," Isaac snaps, and he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to snap, you’re not supposed to snap at people that have just been kidnapped and injured because that could just be the icing on the cake, could just make it easier for them to leave you, and wow, he hasn’t thought this way in a long time, and look at that, this is panicking, he’s panicking.  
  
"I mean, what," he repeats in what should be a calmer voice, but isn’t, really, just slower and rougher, and Stiles does that complicated thing with his face, the one where he smiles.   
  
Stiles smiling has always, without fail, been confusing. And infectious.   
  
"You’re wolfing out, man."   
  
Isaac’s fingers go to his face, automatic, and he nearly pokes an eye out with one of his claws, yeah, alright, he’s wolfing out. He’s wolfing out but Stiles is alive and holding on to his elbow and he’s trying to sit up- "You’ve been losing your shit haven’t you, I shouldn’t have slept so long," and Isaac blurts out, "Stiles, I can’t make you soup."  
  
Stiles frowns, then sighs. "I didn’t pick you for your cooking skills, sweet lips."  
  
And Isaac can’t help it, he huffs out a laugh and drops his head to his knees. He’s holding his claws away from anything that can get torn, the couch and their clothes and Stiles’ 145 pounds of skin and fragile bone.  
  
"I didn’t want to wake you," he tells Stiles. "It’s time for your pills."  
  
His jeans smell like petrol and blood and rot and hospital. He should go get changed.  
  
Stiles’ hand moves to his hair. Stiles never pets, never scratches behind Isaac’s ears like he’s seen Allison do for Scott. Isaac should tell him he doesn’t mind being treated like a dog, in that sense. Stiles’ fingers wind and catch through Isaac’s curls and he pulls his head up and off his lap, makes Isaac look at him, searches for something in his eyes. Isaac raises his eyebrows, what now.   
  
"I’m not in any pain," Stiles smirks. "Look at me, walked over by the entire league of extraordinary gentlemen and still, nothing. Right as rain. I must be very lucky. Or very, very stoned."  
  
Isaac shifts his eyes away and tries to not smile back. Perhaps he overdid it.   
  
"High pain threshold-" he starts, and Stiles’ yanks his hair harder, giving him a look that just dares, _dares_ Isaac to keep going with that lie.  
  
He raises his brows. "I can barely feel the stitches. You really went to town, didn’t you."  
  
Isaac frees his head from Stiles’ grip and reaches over for the water and pills. He pops two onto Stiles’ naked chest and hands him the glass.   
  
"Yeah well. Whatever. You should still take them. You never know how long my thing's gonna last."  
  
He gets up and walks to the window. "Breaking Dawn," he hears Stiles saying from the couch, and Isaac doesn’t know if he should turn around or not, if it’s a comment about the sky that’s breaking out in light blue or Stiles’ new pet name for him. He seems to be working through the Twilight books. Isaac was Eclipse for a month or so. He was New Moon for longer than that.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks suddenly. "I was very. I was scared."  
  
He doesn’t turn around.  
  
"Scared I was gonna die?" Stiles keeps his voice level.   
  
Isaac snorts. Rubs a hand at the base of his neck, pressing. "I didn’t really let myself think that."  
  
He can hear Stiles getting up, and his footsteps growing near. If he were Scott or Allison, he’d be sending Stiles back to the couch, but he knows from personal experience that a broken arm and a couple of bruises and stitches don’t warrant complete immobility. Also from personal experience, he knows that once Stiles has woken up he can’t stay still for more than ten minutes. You'll have to tie him down.  
  
Stiles comes to stand next to him, close enough that their arms are touching.   
  
"Isaac."                                                         .   
  
"Yeah."  
  
In the morning light, the bruises on Stiles’ chest seem more like art, and less like violence. Like abstract inkstains, like the time they painted the Hale house and Isaac kept wiping his hands on Stiles’ white shirt.   
  
Isaac is fighting the impulse to curl into a ball and whimper, and it feels like he’s been fighting it for days.   
  
Stiles’ fingers wrap around his. "I’ve had worse," he says quietly.  
  
"Really," Isaac deadpans. "Have you."   
  
"Yeah."  
  
Isaac tries to drag his hand away. Doesn’t try very hard.  
  
"You have. Worse than being locked in a basement and getting beaten up. Starving for two days without water, having your arm broken with a sledgehammer and your. Your _friend_ choking on wolfsbane in the next room, forced to listen while you screamed. You’ve had worse than that, Stiles."   
  
There’s something hot and dangerous curling at the base of Isaac’s throat. The urge to run away, really far fucking away, and he can now, he can jump out the window and be gone, away from this mess of skin and bones and good intentions, away from the kid that bit a hole through his cheek, trying not to scream.  
  
The fingers around his tighten. If Isaac were fully human, it would hurt.   
  
Stiles’ eyes are dark and serious. His voice is flat. "You’re thinking about running."  
  
He tugs on Isaac’s hand. "Think again."  
  
"You’re not going anywhere. Isaac."   
  
"Isaac."  
  
Isaac doesn’t want to look at him, but Stiles has this power over him, the kind of power that’s got nothing to do with alphas and betas, but the marvelous _holy fucking shit you have complete control over my breathing pattern_ sort of power.  
  
Right now Stiles is telling Isaac’s lungs they should be shrinking, and his heart should be doing somersaults.   
  
"Whenever the people you care about are in danger, you’re gonna lose your shit," Stiles says. "So what. Deal with it. It's the way it goes. That stuff doesn’t change because now you rip your clothes off and howl at the moon every month."  
  
Isaac snorts. Stiles leans over and presses his mouth to Isaac’s shirt, his filthy, dirt-and-hospital-reeking shirt, and speaks against the fabric there, like he’s letting the words soak through. It should feel ridiculous. It doesn’t.  
  
"I knew you were coming. There were times, before, when I knew no-one was coming for me. I was alone. So yeah, Isaac, I’ve had worse. I knew you’d be there, and I just had to suck it up and be a little patient."   
  
Isaac lets his head drop onto the glass in front of them. "A lot patient," he breathes.  
  
Stiles sigh turns into a soft laugh against Isaac’s arm. "I found ways to pass the time. It was alright."  
  
He waits a couple of beats, presses in closer. He nips at Isaac’s skin through the shirt.   
  
"And you’re not my friend. That’s not all you are, in case you couldn’t tell."  
  
Isaac shakes his head, hair scrunching against the glass. Here they are, the unlikely pair, the who’d-have-thought, the little broken boy and his wolf, locked together in a strange pose like a modern work of art. Leaning against each other and the window, like an obscure testament to man’s hunger for love and freedom and the open skies.   
  
Jesus.  
  
Isaac can never make sense of these things, his feelings and his shapeless thoughts, he’s not an artist and he’s not Stiles who seems to be in everyone’s head, 24/7, always knowing what they need, what big words to say. He’s happier with simple things, simple like hello and goodbye, like washing a day’s dishes or locking up after his shift, watching the boy who’s not only his friend sleep like the dead, taking up the entire double bed.   
  
He takes a breath and rearranges them so they make sense, so they’re less complicated. He straightens up, locks his arm around Stiles’ neck and looks at him. There are butterfly stitches over his left eyebrow but his eyes are clear.  The red line running down the middle of his lower lip is the perfect shade of crimson, and it will take some maneuvering around, but it doesn’t entirely rule out kissing.   
  
He presses his mouth softly, very softly against Stiles’ and breathes there for a few moments. Stiles stays, breathes with him. His uninjured arm comes up, and he grabs onto the back of Isaac’s shirt.  
  
Isaac runs his palm up Stiles’ naked spine, the slope of his neck and then up his skull, feeling the electric buzz of short hair against skin, and suddenly Stiles is laughing into his mouth, in measured short bursts, mindful of his bruised ribs, and he’s saying, "oh god, what was it, what you said, harm one hair on his head-"  
  
There's a flare of warmth down Isaac's spine, and he keens, loses it a bit and butts forward, kisses harder, and Stiles makes a noise that’s all pleasure-pain, no stop and keep going. Isaac pulls away for breath and because of the taste of blood in his mouth but Stiles is still grinning, rubbing their noses together, letting their lips catch, "go on, tell me what it was."  
  
Isaac is helpless, done for, when Stiles grins he grins too, runs his nose down the side of Stiles’ face. "I said, harm one hair on his stupid buzzcut and I’m gonna turn your little half-wolf ass into a rug and give it to him to wipe his feet."  
  
Stiles’ shoulders shake. Isaac pulls back to make more sense of his face, that impossible face, and still can’t understand how he’s turned this one small person into his personal definition of safety and home and warm TV dinners.   
  
"Almost as good as the original," Stiles says, and Isaac knows it means you’re an idiot, thank you, welcome back.


End file.
